


A Canadian Carol

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-18
Updated: 2000-01-18
Packaged: 2018-11-10 14:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11128755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: DS Version of a Dickens classic.





	A Canadian Carol

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

A Canadian Carol  
by  
Carl J Lawley  
  
---  
Robert Fraser's cabin. 

Canada. 

Christmas Eve. 

The door to the cabin opened from the outside, letting in a small drift of snow and one Benton Fraser RCMP. He crossed the sparse room and lit a candle over the fireplace, next to which rested a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa. As the light from the candle strengthened, he heard a familiar voice.

"Benton?"

Fraser turned.

"Dad. You're back?" Stood in the middle of the room was Robert Fraser, Benton's father. Ordinarily this wouldn't be out of place, the cabin being his and all, but the man had been killed several years ago. It seems as though you really can't keep a good man down. Or dead. Benton's expression shifted from mild surprise to one of inquisitiveness. "But I thought..." 

"The other side? I was son." His manner seemed abrupt, but then it always was. Came from being a Mountie first all his life. Duty was what mattered. Duty was what killed him. Duty, it had seemed, was what had brought him back. Except that now, his duty was done. "I suppose I still am." 

"Oh." Benton nodded. It wasn't the answer he'd been looking for, it seemed to raise even more questions, but he wasn't going to press the matter. He'd always been taught to respect the dead, despite how they treated him, which reminded him of something. "How's Mom?" 

"She's worried about you, son. That's why I'm here. I've come to warn you." 

Benton gave a look of surprise. "I'm in danger?" 

"Oh no, son. Not really." Fraser Sr. looked uneasy. "Well, yes, I suppose, in a way. But that's not what I'm here for. Well, it is. But not like that." 

"Understood." Benton nodded his head. 

"Really?" This was going well. He'd got round the tricky feelings stuff with hardly any trouble. 

"No." Benton shook his head. 

This was not going well. It was time for the tricky feelings stuff. How to begin? "It's Christmas, son." That's it, state the facts. You can't go wrong stating the facts. 

"I know, dad." 

Okay, now he just looked stupid. Why did it have to be so hard? "Have you spoken with your sister?" Seasonally compassionate. Good save. Now, if he could go somewhere with this... 

"Maggie? Why yes, I called her just two days ago. I wished her well for Christmas." 

"How is she?" 

"She's well. She's engaged to be married again." 

"Good, good. A family's important." A thought occured to him. "It's not the Yank, is it?" 

"This is really you, isn't it? Not some hallucination, I mean? I ate some pemmican yesterday that looked suspiciously blue..." 

"Best kind. Adds flavour." Great, now he was sidetracked again, and the talk of pemmican was making him hungry. He felt he was getting somewhere with the sister thing. Keep it going. "Maggie's fiancee, is he..." 

"He's Canadian." 

"Not the Yank?" He was a little relieved. Much as he felt he owed his son's life to the American, he was a little apprehensive at having an american as a son-in-law. 

"No, dad. Ray's taking a break from our adventure to be with his family at Christmas." 

"Adventure? Oh, the Hand of Franklin. Try a little more to the west." 

He was sidetracked again! This was a perfect opportunity, and he had almost let it slip by. "But family's important, son. Especially now. That's why I'm here." 

"I though you were here to warn me." His expression changed to deep concern. "Is Maggie in trouble?" 

"No, son. It's you." 

"But I'm..." 

"You're mother's worried that you might end up...alone." He knew the feeling. He'd felt it most his life. His heart sank when he thought of all the opportunities he'd wasted. All the wasted days. His whole, wasted life. 

"Oh." 

"She's arranged something, I suppose you'd call it help." 

"Help?" 

"An outside agency. Specialists." It was time for the warning. "You're to be visited by three spirits. Christmas Past, christmas Present and..." 

"Christmas Future?" 

"It wasn't my idea, son. Your mother, she gets very sentimental this time of year." 

"But I've tried to be generous," Benton said, slightly affronted. "I am generous. And good-willed." 

"I know, son. You've a good heart. You just don't know how to use it." He was really feeling hungry now. Or was it remorse? He wasn't sure, but he knew one way to find out. "That's my fault. I should have been here for you more often. But then, I wouldn't have been the greatest of role models in that department anyway." 

The feeling was still there. It must be hunger. He crossed to the fireplace and picked up a cookie. It had chocolate chips. 

"Uh, dad?" Benton dragged his thumb across his eyebrow and looked imploringly at his father. 

Robert Fraser returned his gaze with one of confusion. "What? Oh..." He looked at the cookie in his hand, and then back to Benton. "He doesn't really exist, you know. I did at least tell you that much?" 

"Oh yes," Benton replied, the memory of that day's disappointment flooding back, "You told me that much. It's just, well, It's a tradition." 

"Oh." Robert Fraser replaced the cookie on the plate above the fireplace. "Well, I'll respect your wishes, then. It's time I was going again. One more thing - expect the first at midnight." He crossed the cabin to the door. 

"Goodbye dad," Benton said, his voice laced with apprehension, "and thank you kindly." 

"So long, son," Robert Fraser said as he opened the door. He nodded at his son, "And good luck." 

His father's spirit closed the cabin door, and was gone. 

Benton Fraser looked across at the fireplace. The cookies were gone, too. 

* * *

"So then, how come you're back?" 

Robert Fraser RCMP (Deceased) looked down at his inquisitor and smiled. Here was someone who could appreciate the situation. "It's Christmas. It's a powerful time of year for spirits and such. It was Benton's wish at christmas that helped make the original connection, you know. If he'd wished he'd got to know me better any other time of year, I may not have been able to come back." 

"Really? How come Christmas is so special?" 

"I think it's to do with belief," explained the spirit. "There's a lot of hope and imagination in the atmosphere." He stepped into a beam of light and, just before he disappeared, added "It's a very magical time." 

Diefenbaker looked at the empty point in space where the spirit had been manifesting. "You don't say," he muttered. Then he curled up again and tried to go back to sleep.   
  
Benton Fraser's eyes opened at the sound. It was the sound of a wolf's howl. Diefenbaker's howl. He'd lost track of time while laid in his bedroll, his tiredness unable to keep him fully alert yet his agitated state was preventing him from sleeping. He looked across the cabin to the clock on the wall, but his view was obstructed. By a grey-haired mountie. 

The light from the candle was behind the figure, but he addressed the apparition all the same. "Dad?" 

"Pardon?" A familiar voice answered, but it wasn't his father's. 

"Buck? Buck Frobisher?" 

"Hello Benton." Buck responded with a nod of his head 

Benton looked at the apparition of his father's best friend, Sergeant Buck Frobisher RCMP, stood beside his bedroll. "But you're not dead! At least," he added conscientiously, "not that I'm aware of." 

Frobisher smiled down at Fraser, and patted himself on his ribcage, as if to check that he was well. "Oh no, no. I'm very much alive." His demeanour took on an air of deliberation. "At least, the real Buck Frobisher is. I'm the Spirit of Christmas Past. Didn't your father say I was coming?" 

"Well yes, but according to the story it's...well...it's not you who shows up." 

Frobisher's eyebrows raised as he gestured majestically around the room. "This is no story, son. This is...this is..." He paused, mid-flourish, trying to think of a suitable analogy. He looked down at Fraser as his hands returned to his sides. "This is something different. Something else." He nodded to himself. 

Benton stood from his position of repose and looked at Buck with an inquisitive expression. "If I may ask you a question?" 

"By all means." 

"Why are you here?" 

"Well, technically speaking, I'm not. Not here, that is. Technically speaking, I'm fast asleep in a campsite over six hundred kilometres away. I've just borrowed this personality for a while so I can relate to you more easily." Buck smiled at Benton. "Technically speaking you're not here either. Well, you are, but it's not you." 

Fraser looked down. He was fast asleep on his bedroll. For the first time, he noticed his out of body spirit was now wearing his RCMP uniform. 

Buck Frobisher noticed the surprise in Benton's eyes. "It's a bit like dreaming," he explained, "where you find yourself wearing whatever you feel most at home in." Frobisher's arms spread wide as he displayed his own uniform. "Currently I'm dreaming I'm here explaining all this to you. Formal occasion, formal attire. It's lucky I'm not dreaming of a final exam, then we'd really be in trouble. When I wake up, I won't remember a thing." 

"How do you know all this?" 

"I told you, I'm the Spirit of Christmas Past. At least, I've made Buck Frobisher's spirit think he is. I am. To tell the truth I'm still getting used to it myself." 

"Ah." Fraser looked down again at his sleeping form. He'd experienced out of body episodes before, but nothing quite like this. 

"Well then, if we're all ready, I see no reason why we shouldn't get going, do you?" 

Fraser was about to shrug when Buck Frobisher broke wind. Fraser looked up, tring to keep his face expressionless, and saw the tree, hung with decorations in the corner. He looked across at the chair in the corner, and tried to hold back the lump in his throat. 

"Mom?" he queried, looking at the woman in her thirties who was sat in the chair. 

"I'm sorry, Benton. There's a couple of rules I forgot got to tell you. Seeing as it's just your spirit that's here, you can't make a difference to your surroundings. They can't see or hear you. You can't touch them." 

Fraser moved closer to the woman in the chair, who was cradling a baby child. The babe in her arms was him. He felt a little unsettled at the thought, and backed away again. "She's beautiful," he said at last. 

"That she is," replied Buck Frobisher. He'd been in love with Caroline, Fraser's mother, himself. He had once challenged Fraser's own father for her hand in marriage. It had taken him a long time to get over her. 

The door to the cabin blew open, and let in the figure of a young Robert Fraser. Caroline hugged the child close to her chest to keep him warm as the wind blew through the cabin, snuffing a couple of the candles. Robert closed the door again, and relit the candles from one of those remaining. 

"He's a strong boy," said Caroline. "He takes after you." 

Robert Fraser looked at the bundle in her arms and smiled. "Maybe, but he's got your looks." Robert Fraser leaned over the baby child and made a puffin face. 

Benton Fraser's spirit spoke to that of Buck Frobisher. "They loved me," he said in quiet tones. "They really loved me" 

Buck turned back to Benton, a look of mild surprise written across his features. "Of course they did. Didn't you know?" 

"I never really knew my mother," replied Benton, "and dad was never one for emotions." 

Buck's expression changed to one of sorrow. "Caroline...I mean, your mother's death hit him hard. He wasn't one for emotion before, but he just shut down after she died." 

Fraser turned back to his parents. "They really loved me," he said, partly to himself. 

"They never stopped." 

Buck Frobisher broke wind again. Fraser turned to the noise, and suddenly the room was a cacophony of conversation. He was in the gaily decorated dining room of the old Vecchio household, and there was a veritable banquet spread upon the table. Sat at the head of the table was Ray's father. He looked just like the pictures he remembered on the chest of drawers. 

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Buck, reeling from his own senses. "What has this man been eating?" 

Fraser chose not to hazard an olfactory analysis. Instead he stepped aside as a small boy scurried past with a toy gun in his hand. Buck wasn't quite so agile, and the small boy seemed to trip through the spirit, grazing his knee on the wooden floor. Buck looked down at the child, who was no more than seven, with a look of guilt etched across his face. The small boy started to cry. 

Fraser noticed a resemblance in the little boy's features. "Ray?" 

Sat at the table, the boy's father reacted. "God damn it Raymond, stop crying. I'm sick of you crying all the time. You're just like your sisters. When are you going to grow up and act like a man instead of a little girl!" 

This only seemed to make Ray worse. His face reddened as he cried harder. 

"I said you stop crying this minute!" Ray's father rose shouting from his seat at the table and started towards the boy. "God damn it! It's Christmas day and you're crying like a baby!" 

As the boy's father neared Ray, his anger growing, Ray's mother appeared in the doorway, summoned from her final food preparations in the kitchen by the commotion. She picked the young Ray Vecchio up from the floor and stared at her husband reproachfully, who sat back down. 

"You get too excited, Raimondo," his mother said soothingly. "Come on, I make you all better." She led him by the hand back through to the kitchen. 

Fraser looked slightly puzzled. "I don't understand what I'm supposed to be learning from this." 

"You cannot be told what the message is. You have to work it out for yourself. It's more lasting that way." Frobisher made his way after the young Ray Vecchio. "Come and see." 

Fraser followed them to the kitchen. Ray's mother was already laying the items she needed from the first aid box out on the table. Fraser's heart sank as he realised she must keep it close at hand. 

"I couldn't help him." Fraser's voice was cracking. "Not here. Not now." 

"This isn't about now." 

Fraser looked back to the small boy. Already his tears had stopped. Now his mother was managing to coax a smile from the little boy. The light of realisation dawned in Fraser's eyes. 

"He needed someone," said Fraser. 

"We all do." Buck smiled wryly as he observed Fraser. "Well done." 

Fraser's brow creased as he tried to work out just he'd done well; what it was he'd said, and just what he'd really meant by it. Before he could speak, Buck Frobisher began to shine. He seemed to posess an inner glow that radiated brightness, growing in intensity until Fraser had to shield his eyes with his hands. The light emanating from the old Mountie reached a point where there was nothing else to see, the whole world was bright white. "What's going on?" Fraser called out. "What are you doing?"   
  
After the blinding white light, the sudden darkness hit him like a hammer. Fraser sat bolt upright in his bedroll, the familiar smell of his father's cabin wrapping around him like a blanket, and waited for his eyes to adjust once more. Slowly, illuminated by the moonlight through the window, he began making out shapes in the darkness. He could sense something was out of place. He would be kicking himself once he realised it. It was beginning to irritate him. 

Fraser looked down at his bedroll. Although he was sat upright, the bedroll had not followed him. He rolled athletically to one side and finished standing, and then saw himself once more, still fast asleep. So he was still in limbo, but where was the guiding spirit? He felt a sudden rush of anxiety and, eight feet away, his sleeping figure stirred. Something still didn't feel right. 

A movement caught his attention. It was a shadow passing under the door to the cabin. Realisation dawned on Fraser - the light coming from the door was disproportionately strong in comparison to the soft moonlight filtering through the window. Another shadow passed under the door, and Fraser took it upon himself to investigate. He crossed the cabin to the source of the distraction, paused briefly to adjust his lanyard, and opened the door inquisitively. 

From the relative darkness of his father's cabin, the bright light of the Chicago PD violent crimes squad room burst in on Fraser's senses like a firework. He went through the door into the heart of the bullpen, gazing about him in wonder. Christmas time it may be, but everyone was still as busy as beavers. He looked back to his father's cabin. At least, where it had been five seconds ago. There should have been a door there, he thought. Or even a wall. He'd stepped out into the middle of the room, and now there was nothing there, no turning back. His hand reached out and passed through the space that had until recently been Canadian. 

"Constable Fraser!" Lt. Harding Welsh's call rang out across the squad room. Fraser turned to look across at Welsh's office, and saw the big man leaning through the door and beckoning him inside. Following his instincts, Fraser complied. 

Welsh was sitting back in his chair, rocking it gently as Fraser entered the office. He closed the door behind him, removed his Stetson and stood politely to attention in front of the desk. 

"Relax, constable," Harding Welsh told Benton Fraser. Fraser adjusted his stance so that he was stood at ease. "That's relaxed? Unwind, go wild, knock yourself out," he continued. 

Fraser lacked comprehension. "Sir?" 

"I'm here in the official capacity of the spirit of Christmas Present," Welsh explained. "Of all the places I have to be dreaming of at Christmas, I wind up here. Do you know why?" 

Fraser paused in contemplation for a second, and then shook his head. "I have no idea." 

Lt. Welsh sat forward in his seat. "I'm here because they promised me I'd be dreaming of Geena Davis once I'm done. I have to get you to open up, Constable Fraser, learn to express yourself." 

"You're ordering me to develop my emotions?" Fraser still wasn't sure of Frobisher's message, but this one was coming through clear enough. 

Welsh rose from his chair and walked around his desk. "It's not as easy as that, Constable. You have to want to do so yourself. I'm not here to show you how, I'm here to show you why. Follow me." Welsh opened the door to his office and stepped through into a room Fraser didn't recognise at all. 

Benton reached across and opened one of the blinds in the office. Through the glass he could still see the bullpen, and the familiar fixtures and faces that went with it. Through the door, all he recognised was Harding Welsh. He took a step forward and poked his head through the doorway, holding onto the door jamb and looking both ways. From the other side there was no office, just an open doorway in the middle of a brightly decorated dining room. The mouthwatering aromas of a rich Christmas dinner washed over him. He pulled his head back inside the office. Through the glass he could see the bullpen again, and he could smell the familiar old paper aroma of the office. 

"Are you coming?" Lt. Welsh's voice echoed through ten feet of time and space. 

Fraser drew a deep breath, took a bold step through the doorway, and looked back. The doorway was already gone. He was now stood in an unfamiliar dining room with Lt. Welsh. He decided to take greater note of his surroundings, and took in the mouthwatering aromas that filled the room. It was unmistakenly festive, but he couldn't quite place the recipe. The table was laid, but there wasn't any food on it, suggesting a level of intimacy. Looking out of the window, he could immediately see he was three storeys up. An apartment, then. An apartment in Chicago he noted, as a police cruiser patrolled past the building. It was a nice neighbourhood. He saw a collection of photographs hung in a corner of the room, and went over to them for a closer inspection. He immediately recognised a familiar face recurring among them. 

"Ray?" he whispered in rhetoric, looking back at his friend, Ray Kowalski's life, captured and collected for posterity, displayed not so much for all to see, but simply there to be seen by whoever lived here. 'Here Is Someone Special,' they said. 'Never Forget That.' 

Fraser's train of thought was hijacked by the voice of Harding Welsh. "Come on through, or you'll miss it." 

Fraser looked up to see the lieutenant walking through the room's permanent doorway, and followed him into a hallway. Almost as he stepped through, a knock came at the door to the apartment. Ray's father appeared from what appeared to be the kitchen and opened the door to Ray Kowalski himself. 

"Dad!" Ray stood in the entrance to the Kowalski home, a smile on his face. 

"Son!" Damien Kowalski ushered his son inside. "How you been?" 

"Not too bad," admitted Ray. "It gets kinda cold up there, but the company's good. Like what you done with the place," he added, looking around. 

Ray's mother emerged from the kitchen to greet her son. "Oh, Stanley! Look at you, you've lost weight!" 

"Not much to eat up in the tundra, Mom," he conceded. "Especially if you forget the snowcone flavouring." 

"He looks so happy," observed Fraser. 

Welsh explained. "He's come three thousand miles to be here. It takes a strong link to pull that hard, and his family's one of the most important things in his life. His parents came all the way from Arizona to reconcile with their son. Family's important to them, too." 

Fraser looked downcast. "But my family's gone," he said, mostly to himself. 

"That depends on where you look." Welsh opened the door to the apartment again. except this time, instead of the landing that Ray had entered from, there was another hallway. "After you, Constable," the Lieutenant offered, his arm sweeping the air in a gesture of politeness. 

Benton hesitantly made his way toward his next...what? Test? Experience? He paused in the doorway and looked across at the lieutenant. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he said, with un unusual air of accusation. 

"Me?" Welsh made overtly fake gestures of hurt before a huge grin took over his face. "Just a little. I like seeing you uneasy, it puts you in a different light. We really should do this more often." 

Benton Fraser didn't like feeling uneasy, especially in public. It made him feel weaker, like his superman image had slipped. He was, after all, an ambassador for his country. However, he did feel somewhat liberated by the experience. Technically, he supposed, he was a Canadian, dreaming his Canadian dreams in Canada. Just because he was dreaming of Chicago didn't mean he was there. Officially, at least. "Perhaps next year," he said with a smile. Then he stepped through the doorway. 

He recognised something this time. The surroundings seemed unfamiliar, but he recognised the smell. It was another Christmas lunch, that much would be obvious even to the FBI, but the tapestry of luscious aromas was endemic to only one household he knew of. He was at the Vecchios'. But it didn't look like the Vecchio place. 

"God, that smells good!" Welsh's voice carried with it the lust of a man who had for too long gone without a truly great meal. And attacking his senses was the aroma of a feast to top them all. How the Vecchios kept so slim was at this moment utterly beyond him. 

Fraser turned to the lieutenant. He was feeling more relaxed in his prescence now. And why not? He had practically been ordered to loosen up. He decided to show a little of his mischievous side. "It tastes even better than it smells," he said, knowing that Welsh was unable to fully interact. The lieutenant's reaction was a picture to behold. It was Benton's turn to have his face invaded with a grin. 

"That ain't fair," Welsh complained, "hitting a man above the belt like that." 

Benton's grin expanded. "Just loosening up. Feels good!" he exclaimed, cocking his head. 

They were stood on the first floor landing of what appeared to be a large house. Fraser looked out of the window at one end of the landing and realised he was it was another Chicago street. "Where are we?" he asked. 

"Ray Vecchio called in a favour from a good friend in the Witness Protection Agency. They let the Vecchios use one of their safe houses for a Christmas gathering. He's still on edge about the Iguanas bearing him a grudge." 

There was a set of stairs doubling back and leading down to the ground floor at one end of the landing, and Welsh was now making his way towards them, so Fraser decided to follow. Lt. Welsh paused at one of the doors along the landing and listened. There was a voice on the other side he recognised. He decided to investigate before heading downstairs. 

Harding Welsh took a hold of the doorhandle and turned it. The door opened but, as a part of Fraser seemed to feel, somehow remained shut. Welsh remained outside the room and surveyed the scene. Fraser arrived at his side to see what had caught his attention. 

It was Francesca Vecchio. In a state of undress. She was trying on a selection of dresses, under close scrutiny of her sister Maria. 

"Why did you need to bring along a change of outfit? It's just a Christmas lunch!" Maria was less than impressed with her sister's attitude toward the festivities. 

Francesca cast a scornful look back across at her sister. She was trying on the dresses in front of a full length mirror. "Just shut up and tell me which you think is more festive." She pulled a shocking red dress from the bed her sister was sitting on and held it up in front of her. "It's between this one and the blue one," she said, looking back at the powder blue dress that still rested among several others upon the bed. 

"Why not the black one?" Maria offered, removing a small black dress from the pile that Frannie had brought along. 

"Are you kidding? It's Christmas with family! That dress," she said, pointing to the dress, "is for special occasions." 

Fraser was blushing as he addressed Lt. Welsh. "Uh, sir?" 

Welsh looked on, unable to turn his gaze from the vision of Frannie in her underwear. 

"Sir?" Fraser's tone was more insistent this time. Loose or not loose, he knew this almost certainly wasn't why he was here. 

Welsh recovered his composure. "Yeah, okay," he said, closing the door. "Where was I?" 

"I'd rather not say," replied Fraser, missing the rhetoric. 

Welsh shot a confused look at Fraser for a second, before realising what he'd just said. He had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. "It's not like I'll be remembering any of this, it it?" he said in his defense as he made his way down the stairs. 

"Oh, no sir," Fraser confirmed. 

Welsh sighed to himself. Fraser followed him as he reached the bottom of the stairs and went through into the dining room. Spread out on the table was the familiar sight of the Vecchio Christmas lunch. And stood by the table was the familiar sight of Ray Vecchio, Detective First Grade. 

"I swear to God, Ma, you make the best Christmas dinner in the world," he was saying, his mouth full of some delectable treat from the half-set table. His mother was ferrying the various dishes from the kitchen through to the dining room table. 

"Raymondo! You stop that now!" his mother chided him. "You wait for the others to be ready, then we start. Not before." 

Ray's eyebrows fled skyward as his outstretched palms sought maternal forgiveness, following her back out toward the kitchen. "Ma! You can't just put this stuff out here and not expect me to touch it! It tastes even better than it smells!" 

Welsh's pointing finger gestured accusingly at Ray. "I swear, he knows I can hear this. First you, now him. It's gotta be some kind of attempted gastricide." They followed the mother and son into the kitchen. 

"Ma!" Ray pleaded, "There's not a day went by I wasn't thinking of your cooking." 

"I think of you too, Raymondo. I worry every night. Every night I pray for you that you don't get killed out there playing gangster." 

Ray stopped dead. Like he wasn't thinking the same thing, day after day, night after night for two years. For two years he'd kept it all in, built it all up. He was still too scared to let it all go, but sometimes he couldn't stop it. The loneliness and despair came back and flooded over him, drowned him. 

The change in his demeanour wasn't lost on the observers. This wasn't the Ray that Fraser knew. 

Ma Vecchio saw the hurt in Ray's eyes. She didn't have to know exactly what he'd been through, she could see what it had done to her darling boy. She put her arms around Ray and hugged him lovingly. 

Fraser just looked on, ashamed that he hadn't realised what the experience had done to Ray. 

The doorbell rang out. Ray suddenly looked nervous, moving away from his mother and back through the hallway as he called out up the stairs. "Frannie, look out front and see who that is." He unlocked one of the drawers in the dining room and took out his gun. 

Fraser looked at him with astonishment. This was definitely not the Ray he knew. 

Harding Welsh looked directly at Fraser and said "I'm sorry. It's time to go." 

Fraser moved aside as Ray stepped back out into the hallway making his way cautiously towards the door, both their hearts pounding double time. "What's happening?" asked Fraser. 

Upstairs, Francesca looked out of the window and screamed.   
  
'What the hell was that?' thought Fraser. He was back in the dark cabin, but his heart was still drumming. He looked down again, and then slowly moved himself a couple of feet sideways. He'd never get used to that, he thought, looking over at where he still lay asleep. He got up from his position and approached the door. It seemed solid enough. He unbarred it and took hold of the the handle, steeling himself for what he was about to find. 

He pulled the door open and saw a snowfield by moonlight. The snowfield outside his father's cabin. 

He closed the door. He was obviously still in some kind of limbo, but who was going to guide him now? He felt a strange sensation, and spun round to face... 

"Victoria," Fraser said aloud. He stared at the woman who had haunted his dreams ever since the storm on the mountainside in Fortitude Pass, when they thought they were both going to die. His mind raced, trying to find thoughts, words, something to say to her. All he could come up with was "Why?" 

"I needed to see you, Fraser," came the reply. "I needed to know you were okay. The hardest part of being free was knowing I could never see you again. To apologise to you." 

"Apologise?" 

"I turned your life inside out, and you still put your life before my own. You stopped a bullet for me." 

Fraser looked deep into her eyes. "Those wounds heal," he said. 

Victoria looked down, ashamed. "I never meant to hurt you," she said. "I needed you. Fraser, I did it for us." 

"You did it all wrong," Fraser replied. "You sacrificed my friends, you tore down my dignity, you destroyed everything I held dear, just so I couldn't turn back. I wouldn't be a mountie anymore, I wouldn't be able to look in a mirror. That bullet probably saved my life." 

"I can make it up to you." 

"How?" 

"I won't remember any of this, but you will. I'm going to break you down, Fraser. I'm going to break down your walls and set you free." 

He was too focused on the woman who had once stolen his heart to notice straight away, but he was no longer in his father's cabin. He didn't realise until she turned away and walked down the aisle of what appeared to be a small church. Fraser's attention broke from Victoria and he took in the scene. It was a mourning service. Fraser walked down the aisle after her, his tension building. He could see the grieving people, dressed in black. It was the Vecchio family. They all looked about fifteen years older than he remembered them. 

Victoria stepped aside so that Fraser could see the coffin. Frannie was crying over it, her brother Tony cradling her shoulders, trying to keep her together. Fraser felt suddenly numb as he heard the name of the loved one in the coffin. 

Benton. 

He walked up to the coffin, his body in slow motion, his heart in fast forward. He'd seen himself from the outside before. He'd done so three times tonight already, but he felt he was never going to get used to it. And now he was going to see himself dead. 

He peered inside the coffin. It wasn't him. It was a young boy, only fourteen or fifteen. 

"She named her first child Benton," Victoria explained. 

Fraser didn't feel any sense of relief. If anything, he felt worse. "What happened?" he asked. 

"He grew up without a real father figure. As much as she loved them, as much as she tried, Francesca wasn't able to cope with six children on her own, and a single mother with six kids isn't a big attraction for any possible partners." Victoria looked from the grieving mother to Fraser. "He fell in with a bad crowd, and caught a bullet in a gang attack." 

Fraser had difficulty finding his voice. "What about her family?" 

"Most of them have families of their own, Fraser. And whether they accept it or not, being a single mother in a Catholic family still carries a stigma." 

A disturbing thought occured to Fraser. He wasn't at the service. "Where am I?" 

The strong, icy blast at his back caught Fraser completely by surprise. He turned into the cold wind to see another funeral. A burial. The RCMP turnout told him all he needed to know. This one was really his. Victoria walked past him toward the grave. Fraser noticed she was now wearing a heavy coat. 

He took a couple of steps forward and called out to her. "How?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard above the wind. 

"You went missing in bad conditions on a routine patrol. It took three days before a search party was able to go out and look for you. They found you frozen, with a broken neck, suspected cause was a fall from your sled." 

"Suspected?" 

Victoria said nothing, just turned and walked around behind Fraser, allowing him a full view of the mourners at his service. They were all in RCMP uniform. 

"Maggie's here," he observed, scanning the faces of the gathered mourners. "Where's everyone else?" 

"Frobisher died of natural causes a year ago," explained Victoria. "Kowalski was killed working undercover - you spent two weeks bringing the perpetrator to justice, blowing four years and over six million dollars of FBI operations. Meg Thatcher is deep undercover on assignment for the CSIS in Iran. Turnbull was commited to an institution when he broke down following the collapse of his political comeback. Welsh is retired, and never hears of your death." 

"And Ray Vecchio?" Fraser turned to Victoria, and found he was now stood in a darkened room. The only light came from the neon motel light outside the window and the flashing decorations on a small Christmas tree in the corner, which illuminated the sparse furnishings with a strangely depressing glow. Facing the tree was an armchair. 

"The Iguana family got him." 

Fraser moved toward the tree, until he could see the body in the armchair. It was Ray Vecchio's. He was crying gently. 

"Ray?" Benton looked at Ray Vecchio. Ray was staring at the tree, hypnotised. He looked unwell. On a small table by the side of the chair lay a handgun. Ray's hand was resting on it. 

Victoria moved around to the door of the motel room, and looked cooly at Ray. "He's been getting gradually worse. Stella was unable to keep up with his mood swings, and she left him. He forced her away." As if proving a point, her hand reached out and still looking at Ray she knocked, once, on the door. 

Ray's hand closed instinctively on the gun and he frantically pulled it into a firing position toward the door, pointing purely by coincidence straight at Victoria's heart. 

Victoria moved aside uneasily, and looked at Fraser. "With Stella gone, he had nobody to turn to." Ray was still pointing his gun at the door, holding his breath and waiting. "He was afraid if he contacted his family, the Iguanas would have hurt them, maybe killed them. He developed an intense distrust of strangers. He even faked his own death twice." 

Fraser pulled his worried gaze from Ray. "He can always call me. He can count on me. He knows that." 

Ray's hands began shaking, and he convulsed as he tried to hold back his tears. 

"You're a rock, Fraser. He needed comfort. He needed sympathy. You were never able to talk freely about your own feelings, how could you talk about his?" 

"I...I never knew he needed me that way." 

Ray convulsed again, trying to keep back his pain, but he couldn't hold back any longer. He let his breath out in an anguished cry, and tried to breathe again through his sobs. 

"He needed something, someone, but now it's too late. He's a man with no options." 

"No. He'd never..." Fraser looked at Ray again. 

Ray's hands shook terribly as he tried to see through his tears, as he felt the weight of the gun in his hands. For just a second, he felt a moment of insane clarity. 

"The rate's always up this time of the year." 

Fraser saw the look in Ray's bloodshot eyes. He tried to take the gun from his friend, but his hand passed straight through. He knelt at the foot of the chair, trying to look into Ray's eyes, maybe make a breakthrough somehow. "Ray?" 

Ray lowered his gun, and brought it to his lap, his hands trembling, his tears unstoppable. All he could think of was the gun. 

"You know the rules, they're simple enough." 

"I'm right here Ray. Please, talk to me! I'm sorry, Ray! Please, I'm sorry!" 

Ray raised the gun to his head. All he could think of, all he could remember now was the fear. 

"He can't hear you Fraser, nor can he see you." 

Benton was frantic, begging, trying to get through. There were tears in his eyes now. "Oh God Ray No! Please Ray, I'm so sorry!" 

Ray pulled the trigger. 

"Especially now." 

Benton Fraser screamed as his world exploded. 

* * *

Fraser sat bolt upright in his bedroll. He was sweating. The light of morning was streaming in through the windows of the cabin, and he checked himself. He was awake again. It was over. It was all over. 

It was all a dream, he told himself. 

So why couldn't he stop crying?   
  
The huge shadow swept across the wasteground, as had many similar before it, accompanied by the scream of the engines of the Air Canada owned Boeing 737 casting it. The shadow sped onto the tarmac of runway three, and met with a squeal the rubber of the tyres on the landing gear. The airoplane lifted again for a second, before returning once more to the ground. This time both sets of landing gear touched down, and stayed down. The scream of the engines lowered in pitch, and the sank lower to the ground until the forward gear, finally, touched down. The engines went into reverse. The brakes were applied and the plane, finally, came to a stop on the runway of O'Hare Airport, Chicago. 

Six minutes later, and the mobile stairs were in position. The stewardess was at the top of them, greeting the passengers as they left the craft. 

"Merry Christmas. Thank you for flying Air Canada. I hope you enjoyed your trip." She smiled her practised smile at the man now leaving the plane, the now notorious '14b'. 

"Thank you, I did," said 14b with a leery smile. 

"I'll bet you did" she muttered under her breath as she watched him proceed down the steps, her smile not changing but her eyes leaning toward a scowl. 14b had famously disappeared into the toilets with 14a, one of the less sober female passengers. He'd taken just four minutes, and had come back looking more pleased with the outcome than the disappointed 14a. 

"Excuse me..." 

Her gaze came back to 22f, the passenger now departing; her eyes opened wider, and her smile suddenly achieved sincerity. 

"What day is it?" asked Benton Fraser RCMP, his heart pounding. Was this real? Had he misread? After recent events, he was afraid he'd made a mistake. He'd checked all the calendars he saw. He'd stared at the date on his ticket stub. He'd even asked the stewardess who'd brought him his complimentary in-flight drink and snack, and every time he checked his heart pounded harder. 

The stewardess continued staring at him. "Why," she faltered, her mind trying to get back to the job, "It's Christmas day." 

Benton Fraser looked relieved. "Thank God, I'm not too late." He tipped his stetson toward the stewardess, said "Thank you kindly," and began making his way down the stairway. 

"Merry Christmas," the stewardess called after him. 

Benton Fraser stopped and turned on the stairway. "And a Merry Christmas to you, too," he called back, before making his way again. 

"Merry Christmas indeed," she added to herself, watching him all the way down. 

* * *

Benton Fraser paused, his hand reaching for the doorbell of the white painted house. He was fully aware of the absurdity of the situation. He'd dreamed of his past - that was nothing new. Everything there was based on experience. He'd dreamed of the future - that too was par for the course. Everything there was based on supposition. But he'd also dreamed of the present, now, today, this minute. He'd dreamed of this house, and of the people inside, and now he was here. The only reason he was able to find this house was because he'd dreamed they'd be here. What if he was wrong? What if he'd just brought up a memory of this house, and the people inside. What if, when it really came down to it, he'd come all this way because of a dream? 

He pressed the bell. The chimes rang out. 

Fraser took a step back and stood at ease, his hands folded behind his back. This was the moment his life could change forever, he thought. If it really was the Vecchios, then everything was true. He'd need to change, he'd need to open up for Ray's sake. 

The door opened slightly, to reveal a man holding a gun. 

Fraser looked up at him and spoke. "Merry Christmas, Ray." 

"Fraser?" Ray looked stunned. 

"Yes, Ray." He regarded his friend. Already he'd become nervous enough to answer the door armed, even on Christmas day. If all he'd dreamed so far was true... 

Fraser looked from the gun, to Ray, and tried not to remember. He failed. 

Ray recovered, and looked both ways down the street. "Come on in." His voice was dry, wavering. Fraser went in through the door and Ray closed it behind him, checking carefully that nobody was watching. 

Ray put the gun down and relaxed slightly, but he was still concerned. "How did you find me? This place is top secret!" 

"Well, uh," Fraser hesitated. How in heaven's name would he explain this one? 'I had a dream' just didn't seem right. 

"Look who I'm talking to!" Ray exclaimed, loosening up. "You probably found a bent twig or something and figured it out." 

"Well not exactly, Ray." 

"I've known you for years now, Benny. Nothing you could possibly do would surprise me now." 

Fraser looked deep into Ray's eyes, and came to a decision. He moved forward, wrapped his arms around Ray and hugged him warmly. "I'll always be there for you, Ray," he said softly. "No matter what. I will always be there for you." 

For the second time in as many minutes, Ray recovered his composure. His arms hesitantly wrapped themselves around Fraser and returned the gesture. Finally he said, in deadpan tones, "I will never underestimate you again." 

Fraser released his hug and slowly backed away. "Thank you, Ray," he said. Ray was surprised to note the hint of a tear in his friend's eye. 

Their attention was rudely turned to the sound of frantic running from the floor above, followed by a short pause. Francesca Vecchio made her way down the stairs, smoothing out the figure-hugging black dress she was wearing. Fraser looked with a mild surprised expression to Francesca, Frannie beamed warmly back at Benton, and Ray looked despairingly to the heavens. "Will you be staying for dinner?" asked Francesca. 

"Well, if there's no problem?" Fraser looked to Ray, who shrugged. 

"We always set a spare place each year for unexpected guests. It's a tradition," he explained. 

Fraser looked to Ray and smiled shyly. "Thank you, Ray." Then made his way after Francesca to the dining room, and the rest of the Vecchio household. 

* * *

And the spirits of Christmas, acknowledging their task accomplished, added their signature to the harmony of the waking world. 

* * *

Ray Vecchio smiled after his friend and shook his head in mild disbelief. "God bless us, every one." 


End file.
